


Wildest Dreams

by AndaisQ



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Blowjobs, Body Hair, Declan Lynch is not okay, Dubious Consent, Edging, Facials, Foot Fetish, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Large Cock, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Niall Lynch is not a good parent, Ronan is into some fucked-up shit, Sweat, extremely dubious theology, foreskin, fortunately so is everyone else, handjobs, highly distressing makeouts, kind of???, let's get THAT out of the fucking way, the Lynches have a strong phenotype
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 14:52:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11900040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndaisQ/pseuds/AndaisQ
Summary: Wet dreams are inconvenient. For a Dreamer, they're more of a problem. Ronan goes through puberty and dissociates during sex; Niall is an irritatingly perceptive asshole; Declan is just plain fucked-up.Maggie, if by some profound cosmic misfortune you find this story, please for the love of God leave now.





	Wildest Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all. Been a while since I did one of these! This is morally indefensible, but stay tuned for the possibility of future works that aren't.
> 
> Standard disclaimer: Don't fuck middle-schoolers. Especially if they're related to you. But that shouldn't be a deciding factor, because to reiterate, you shouldn't be fucking them in the first place.

 Strange things had happened to Ronan Lynch in the last few months. He had grown hair in strange places, his penis stiffened with distressing regularity, and his dreams filled with imagery too shameful to describe when he was awake, though he couldn't say for certain if they were nightmares.

He awoke covered from head to toe in a viscous white substance, out-of-body as usual. He was holding something in his hand. When he saw what it was, he whimpered.

It would have to go into the closet with the others.

He did not hear his door quietly close.

O~O~O

Niall Lynch sat at the table and looked at his eldest son – still awkward and too long for himself, but already almost a man – and nearly felt proud. While he had little to say for the boy, there was an air about him of someone who would one day Do Something. That was something to admire, even in a stranger like his son.

"Declan," Niall began, "this conversation is going to go predictably. I'll tell you something horrible. You'll take it in your stride, like you somehow always do, because you're a soulless machine. Then I'll ask you to do something deeply unpleasant, and you'll agree, but you'll file it in your list of reasons you're going to kill me one day, and depending on how mad you get, you may or may not say something weird and creepy about it. Oh, and we'll insult each other throughout and pretend it's wit, which is the only way we've been able to connect since your voice dropped."

"Honesty," Declan said drily. "Father, you shouldn't have."

Niall twitched. "Why the hell do you always have to call me that?"

"Because it makes you uncomfortable, and because I feel you could use the occasional reminder that I am, biologically, your son."

Niall could not contest this. "The horrible thing is that Ronan is finally going through puberty, and his dreams are evolving to match."

"I have noticed the increase in laundry," Declan commented. "Wet dreams don't seem that bad."

"Not in principle," Niall agreed. "But your brother is apparently into some fucked-up shit."

Niall tossed Declan what looked like a dildo, which he caught with equanimity. "Why, Father, it's not even Christmas."

Niall glared. "Take a closer look, smartass."

Declan dutifully examined it. The more he looked, the more obvious it became that this was not silicone. For one thing, it had the inimitable texture of skin over flesh, stretching with his touch. For another, as he ran a finger along it, it grew erect and dripped slightly from its tip. Finally, he realized with dawning discomfort that it was an exact replica of his own cock, which he felt twitching treacherously at the thought of this object's origin.

"This is his dream?" Declan confirmed.

His father rolled his eyes. "No, I brought you in here to talk about Ronan so I could confess my twisted _Lolita-_ style lust for my least favorite son. Of fucking course it's Ronan's. And it's not the only one he has." He pulled out a second phallus, mind-bogglingly large, and a third which was clearly barely pubescent.

"Shit," Declan said mildly. "Are you actually that big?"

Niall squinted at him. "Yes. _That's_ what you're asking, with your little brother having creepy incest dreams about you?"

"Yes." Declan continued to manipulate his dream-cock absently. "So the creepy incest thing is the horrifying problem?"

"Among other things. If he's left unchecked while he goes through the rest of puberty and his power grows, we'll end up with copies. _Pornographic_ copies. Of me, and you, and Matthew."

"That's... a problem," Declan admitted.

Niall nodded grimly. "I can kill me, and I can certainly kill you. I don't think anyone in this house could kill Matthew. Not even if he's a sex-crazed doppelgänger."

Declan shivered in agreement. "You mentioned other things."

"The other problem is the other half of the fucked-up shit he's into. The other day, Ronan woke up with a hole ripped in his PJs, covered in various fluids. He was also covered in deep bite marks, and bruised black around the throat. And the crotch of his pajama pants was soaked."

Declan raised an eyebrow. "With what?"

"Cum, you obtuse prick." Niall paused. "Though he may have pissed himself too, which seems reasonable under the circumstances. What I'm saying is that he's waking up injured because his dreams are seriously fucking him up, and they're doing it because, at least in principle, he likes it."

"So, you're worried it'll escalate."

Niall shook his head. "The dreams aren't going to kill him. That's not kinky, it's suicidal. But I'm worried about the effect of constantly dreaming about us fucking him up. The injuries we can handle. The psychological trauma, not so much. He might drive himself away from the rest of us."

Declan's fist unconsciously clenched around the dream's shaft. Its head drooled a stream of spunk over his sleeve. Niall snickered at him as he set the cock on the table and wiped the cum off quickly with a paper towel.

Eventually, his sleeve clean and dry, Declan spoke. "So that's the information. What's the request?"

Niall winced. "This is going to sound super creepy."

Declan raised his eyebrow again. "Creepier than helping you hide all those bodies?"

"The bodies were nothing," Niall snorted. "Dead people aren't creepy, they're just dead. No, this is _fucked up_ , and I want you to do it because you're, you know." He gestured vaguely. "Declan."

A second eyebrow joined the first. "How charming of you to think of me."

"I need you to stop the dreams," Niall sighed.

The eyebrows fell. "That doesn't sound so bad. I'm disappointed."

"Let me clarify. He's going to keep having nothing but wet dreams unless he start popping off when he's awake. It's how I worked when I started, and I'm pretty damn sure it's how he works."

Declan considered, already internally sighing. "So you need me to teach him to jerk off."

"Yeah. You'll have to punch through the Catholicism first, but I'm sure this isn't the first preteen whose faith you've destroyed."

It wasn't. "Can't I just have him dream up an Orgasmotron?"

Niall shook his head, obviously working from experience. "Can't get something out of your dreams that'll affect your own mind."

"It'd be affecting his body!" Declan said irritably.

"Tell that to the magic."

Declan finally sighed on the outside. "So I need to find a hole in all the Jesus big enough to fit some good old-fashioned Onanism."

His father just leered.

Declan delicately pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are such a seventh-grader."

"So's the kid who you're about to mentor in the art of his own dick," Niall pointed out. "Speaking of which, wanna get on that before he takes an afternoon nap and spawns a creepy porno-Matty?"

Declan's eyes narrowed. "Not until you tell me why I'm the one who gets to do this."

If he'd expected a justification, he was disappointed. Niall shrugged. "Never learned how."

Declan stared. "You _what?_ "

"Why would I?" Niall laughed. "The world of dreams was my disturbingly erotic buffet! And unlike Ronan, I had nothing to lose. It wasn't until I started dreaming out sex-clones that I stopped, and even then, only because I was having sex with them during the day. I think they're still around, actually."

"Tell me you do not have a sex-clone storage area in the Barns."

Niall scoffed. "Of course not. They're back in Eire, gaily whoring around as nature intended."

Declan would have to accept this as a win. "I guess I'm off, then. _Au revoir_."

" _Casse-toi,_ " his father agreed.

O~O~O

Ronan lay on his bed, hugging Matthew, as he sometimes did when there was nothing else to do. It was raining, and while ordinarily he'd have brought Matthew out to play in the mud, his nocturnal activities had left him more and more tired over the past few weeks, and right now he just needed company. Matthew, ever loving, readily complied.

(A dream bubbled to the surface, Matthew complying readily to something entirely different. Ronan gritted his teeth and pulled his brother closer.)

Declan knocked casually on the doorframe as he walked in. "Hey, guys!" he said easily. "How's tricks?"

"You don't actually talk like that," Ronan pointed out, sitting up. (A dream, Declan using the same affectedly casual tone as he opened Ronan slowly, fingers slick against his eternally virgin hole. Ronan twitched.)

"I do, actually," Declan countered. "Specifically, I talk like that to you and Matthew, because it makes me seem like a fellow relatable youth."

Ronan stuck out his tongue. Matthew contributed, "I'm not sure you count. You're pretty old."

Declan clutched his chest, deeply hurt. Ronan threw a pillow at him. Declan shifted his weight, looking for all the world like he was going to fall onto the bed and tickle him in retaliation, as he often did (another dream, a different game, like wrestling but _so much more fun,_ Declan said.) Then he flinched ever so slightly, his face sour for a split-second, and fell back into his neutral stance.

"Matty, I know this is gonna sound dumb, but I gotta talk to Ronan alone for a minute," he said, his face very deliberately relaxed.

Matthew frowned. "That is dumb. Is it a secret? You're not supposed to have secrets."

Declan shook his head. "It's not a secret! It's just that Dad wants me to talk to Ronan about something private. It's kind of embarrassing, so you gotta go play by yourself for a little while. Okay?"

Matthew pouted, obviously not convinced. "Ronan's not feelin' good. I don't wanna leave him alone."

"He won't be alone. I'm here."

"But he needs hugs," Matthew said, frowning.

"I'll hug him for you," Declan promised. (He winced again, subtly.) "Go play with Mom and Dad."

Matthew left, shutting the door behind him with only a little hesitation. Ronan was left alone with Declan, oddly conscious of how small he was in comparison. (Another dream, or rather a dozen of them. He knew how small he was in comparison. Comparison with Declan, and especially his father. He knew the dreams had not lied about this. He felt a phantom twinge in the spot he somehow knew his father could reach with his practically inhuman length.)

Once it became obvious that Declan was not going to start this conversation, Ronan reluctantly took the lead. "What'd you wanna talk about?"

Declan's voice attempted to remain casual. "You've been having dreams."

A chill went down Ronan's spine, but he shrugged it off. "Yeah. I do that."

"You've been having new dreams," his brother clarified. "Dreams that get kind of scary. But they're fun, in a weird way."

The chill came back with reinforcements. "That's specific."

Declan sat on the bed and pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. "I'm not doing this right now. You've been having dreams about me and Dad and Matty fucking you. Violently. Okay? Is that specific enough? Do you need extra detail work here?"

Ronan began to dissociate slightly. "Oh."

"And we need to have a talk about it."

"No, yeah," Ronan said dizzily. He leaned back onto the mattress, no longer quite able to sit up.

Declan looked at him, abruptly concerned. "You alright? That was kinda harsh, sorry."

"No, it's cool." Ronan shook his head vaguely. "I'd been wondering why you didn't want to touch me today. It makes sense."

Declan blinked. "Jesus Christ."

"No, it's fine."

"No it fucking isn't! I am not-" Declan closed his eyes and inhaled for a second. Then he bundled Ronan in his arms and held him on his lap. " _That is not the problem._ "

Ronan blinked.

"Oh," he said after some time processing the feeling of Declan's warmth against his skin. (A dream tried to surface, but it was muffled by the relief of his brother's presence.)

"I probably could have framed the whole thing a little better," Declan allowed. "There's other shit going on that's got me on edge. But you're not the problem. You're never going to be the problem, Ronan."

"That is definitely not true," Ronan said immediately. "I'm the problem a lot."

Declan shook his head. "The shit you _do_ is a problem. Not who you are."

Ronan considered this, then burrowed deeper into Declan's arms. Declan stopped talking for a little while, just stroked his back soothingly. Ronan felt small, and soft, and safe. He wanted to stay like this until he didn't remember why he'd needed it.

After some time, however, a question itched at his mind. "How'd you know about the dreams?"

Declan raised an eyebrow. "Besides the laundry?"

"Laundry doesn't get you names, jerk," Ronan said, blushing furiously.

"No, it doesn't," Declan admitted. He chose his words for a moment. "You know how Dad is kind of nosy?"

Ronan nodded slowly.

"When you started waking up hurt, he decided to investigate. He found the, uh, stuff. In your closet."

"Which- which stuff?" Ronan's heart stopped again.

"The exact replica of his dick was what tipped him off," Declan said matter-of-factly. "He connected the dots on the other two. And then he figured out what was causing the injuries."

Ronan felt himself crying, just a little bit. Declan pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket (a real cloth handkerchief – who _did_ that?) and patiently blotted his tears. "Hey, hey. We're gonna work it out, okay?"

"It's-" Ronan sniffled again. "It feels _good._ It's bad but it feels really good. And I don't want to- "

"Shh." Declan pulled him closer. "It's gonna be fine. I'm gonna show you how to make them stop happening all the time, and if you still want them later, Dad can show you how to get them back safely."

Ronan's brow furrowed. "Why would I want them back?"

"Because they feel good. That's a good thing."

"But-" Ronan struggled to find a coherent argument, his mind clouded by tears. "But it's wrong. It's – God doesn't like it."

"Ronan," Declan admonished. "What kind of God would punish you for thinking something? He made you. He put these thoughts in your head. He doesn't make mistakes."

Ronan groped for truth. "No, I put them in. They're in my head because of something wrong with _me._ That's why you confess, that's why you say the Hail Mary, so you can clean yourself of what you've done."

Declan shook his head. "You can't clean off what you are. And you don't have to. And if I saw you trying, I'd stop you, because that's not right."

Ronan couldn't think of anything to say to that. "So what's your idea? How do I make it stop?"

"Start jacking off," Declan explained succinctly.

Ronan squirmed. "That's _definitely_ not allowed. Onanism's a sin. God said so."

"We have a situation here where sin is going to happen one way or another," Declan stated. "If you don't start touching yourself, your dreams are going to start manifesting, and that'd be really bad for everybody. God doesn't mind if you do something a little bit bad to keep something really bad from happening."

Ronan thought vaguely that Father Carmichael would say otherwise, but Father Carmichael wasn't here, and his brother was, and this was important. "Okay," he sighed. "How do I do it?"

"I'll teach you," Declan said smoothly. "Just pull down your pants."

Ronan was consumed by a cacophony of dreamed Declans saying exactly those words. He struggled against his brother's arms, suddenly panicked. "No! This is- you're a dream, I can't do this! Get away from me!"

Declan soothed him, pulling him in close and gently stroking his hair. "Come on, buddy, I'm as real as you are. It's fine, I'm trying to help you. Isn't there some way you can tell if you're dreaming? Just relax."

Ronan listened closely to the words, and the way he said them. They were in English. They weren't in Latin, or the other strange language his dreams sometimes spoke. This was a real Declan. And it wasn't like in the dreams, he had a reason to do what he was doing. It wasn't a dream, it was just fucked up and beautiful and too much, just like the dreams.

Slowly, the blood stopped pounding in his ears. "Okay," he said eventually. "I'm not dreaming, you're not turning into a pumpkin or whatever. So, um. Pants. Do I need to take them off all the way?"

"Just open your fly. We'll start easy." After a moment, Declan added, "And you can get off my lap if it'd be more comfortable."

Ronan shook his head, his face warm. "No, it... I like it like this." He shifted himself so his back was against his brother's chest, then slowly pulled the button of his jeans through the hole of the fly. Sitting as he was, his hips pushed the zipper down partway; he found himself unable to complete the process.

Calmly, Declan asked, "Should I help?"

Ronan nodded again, his face furiously red. Declan took the zip between his fingers and slid it down smoothly. The white of Ronan's briefs was stark against black denim, as was the tent in the cotton fabric. He splayed his fingers over his face, shaking slightly.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before," Declan murmured. "Are you gonna be able to start on your own, or do you want me to help you out?"

Ronan's lip trembled. After a long silence, he said, "...yeah."

Without another word, Declan's hand slipped under his waistband to grasp him. Ronan sucked in a breath, shocked by the contact, and Declan's hand flipped the elastic waistband over, exposing his privates to the cool air and to his brother's studious eyes. He stroked thoughtfully, pulling Ronan's foreskin back and forth, sliding a finger along the outline of the ridge underneath, and finally eliciting a shiny drop of precum, which he smeared experimentally along the tip of the glans.

Ronan swallowed a whimper. "What are you _doing?_ "

"Seeing what you like," Declan said absently. "I've got kind of a direct line to your brain, here. I'm seeing how it ticks."

"That's _creepy_ ," Ronan moaned.

Declan shrugged in acknowledgement, gently testing how far Ronan's foreskin would go down his shaft. "But I need to know what you like if I'm gonna help. I can't take any chances on this, buddy. These dreams are dangerous."

Before Ronan could reply, Declan did something mysterious with his hand which made it very hard for him to form words. He decided to give up on the argument.

Ronan was aware that he'd been waiting for this kind of contact a long time. Even though he'd only recently figured out what form it could take, he'd always wanted _something_ from Declan, something more than he should. He wanted to _experience_ Declan. Now he was experiencing him, and he felt so alive and so unreal that every second brought another pinch-me moment of doubt.

As Declan worked his way through an obviously extensive bag of tricks (always seeming to know when Ronan was close to the edge, and always pulling away at the last second to pet his back until his breath evened out), Ronan's pants slid down inch by inch. Gradually, the base of his cock was revealed, then his tight, cherry-sized balls, and so on until they were practically down to his knees. Declan looked down as if he was noticing for the first time how low they had gotten. "D'you want me to help you out of those?"

Ronan nodded mutely, unsure of his voice. Declan picked him up casually and set him on the bed, once again face-to-face, and carefully pulled off his shoes. As he removed Ronan's socks, he stroked a finger along Ronan's sole, and Ronan braced himself for a fit of giggles. But instead of tickling, his brother's touch hit him with a spike of arousal. His back arched and his cock flexed involuntarily, splattering his hairless belly with droplets of precum.

Declan looked up, his mouth twitching. "I knew you were sensitive there," he mused. "Good to know that runs both ways."

Blushing furiously, Ronan kicked him. Declan caught his foot in one hand and, smirking, pressed a slow kiss to the top of it, moving gradually to take his big toe into his mouth. Ronan stopped breathing for a moment, then started breathing entirely too much. Realizing his mistake, Declan detached and attempted again to soothe his brother back from the brink, but it was already too late; Ronan's hips stuttered compulsively upwards as his already overtaxed prostate gave up the ghost and sprayed a shower of thin, watery cum over Ronan's shirt, face, and bedroom wall.

Declan looked on, impressed. "I never got it that far at your age."

Ronan thought distantly that he could say _you probably didn't have this kind of help,_ but he could also lie there dripping and try to regain control over his muscles, which seemed like more of an immediate priority.

Declan wiped his hand fastidiously on a dry patch of Ronan's shirt, leaned on one arm, and sighed. "This is a little bit of a problem; I was just trying to tease you, but you're already out the door. I haven't gotten around to the demonstration yet, and I don't know if you'll really retain the technique without it. And you can't do it with..." He flicked the long-hooded tip of Ronan's oversensitive member, and it flopped to one side. "This."

Ronan waved his hands in a vague attempt to swat Declan's encroaching appendages away. Declan ignored him and started mopping up the disaster area with his handkerchief. "Can't you... d... you." Ronan marshaled his words. "Can't you just demonstrate on yourself? You've got a dick."

"I can try," Declan shrugged. "You should be ready to try it on for size by the end, you're obviously horny as hell. If not, we may need a refresher course later."

Ronan did not at all object to the concept of a refresher, but he was too red from exertion to blush any further. He sat up effortfully and tried to look ready for his lesson. "Okay, do it."

Declan nodded firmly. "First, though..." He took the hem of Ronan's damp shirt in his hands and pulled it off, then shot it half-court into the laundry hamper. "Nice!"

Ronan rolled his eyes, even as he felt his nipples hardening in the cool air, and smacked his brother's arm. "Start sinning already, jerk."

"Never stopped, kiddo." With that, Declan stood up in one fluid motion and began to unbutton his white shirt, gradually revealing a lean but black-fuzzed chest, armpits sporting a modest amount of wiry black hair, and the flat stomach that came of really enjoying exercise and not actually liking food. Once it was off, he folded it with startling efficiency and started on his slacks. Underneath he wore black silk boxer briefs, of course, and even from the bed, Ronan could already smell the wet patch of thick teenaged sweat at their pouch. Declan might have dressed like a Kennedy in miniature, but he was still a boy underneath it all.

With his overclothes all neatly folded on the dresser, Declan stood before his little brother grinning in only socks and his tented underwear. This last, right at Ronan's eye level, he slowly removed, revealing by inches an unusually long and incredibly thick erection. Ronan had seen it in dreams, and he had briefly stroked the copy he'd brought back with him before being overcome by guilt. Seeing this trunk standing out from his brother's evenly trimmed thatch of damp pubic hair, knowing that it was as real as anything he'd ever seen, was different. His breath caught in his throat, and his lips parted without any intent of his own. He felt impulses through every part of his body – to touch it, to taste it, to smell it, do anything he could to experience this solid, fully realized miracle. He froze instead, and only stared.

Declan chuckled and, with his thumb, propped Ronan's chin back into place. But the thumb lingered for a second too long, tracing over his lip as Declan's face turned from smirking to strangely neutral, before returning to pull the boxers the rest of the way down. Declan kicked off his underwear, and this time didn't bother to fold them before stepping forward abruptly. His cock bobbed in front of Ronan's face for a second, and Ronan was about to give in and grab for it when his brother crouched down and kissed him.

There had been kisses before. On the cheek, on the top of the head, preparing for a raspberry to the bellybutton. This was not like that. This was lips, and tongues, and feelings from some dark corner of the heart that only dreams or nightmares could express. Declan's lips and tongue searched his own, mapping virgin territory like a half-maddened surveyor. Ronan didn't think, felt nothing but electricity spreading from his lips to submerge every inch of his skin. He struggled to remember where and who and what he was.

Declan kissed like he was seeking something. Ronan kissed like he was drowning.

Declan pulled away, his pupils blown so wide that the only evidence his eyes were blue was a thin halo around a yawning abyss. For a split-second, with his eyes blank and his lips parted, he just looked lost. Ronan looked at him and saw a boy not so much older than him, a fellow kid who was desperate for something Ronan didn't know enough to give. Then, so quickly that Ronan couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined it (though he was very sure he hadn’t), his face snapped back into place, eyes retreating behind their blue and mouth smiling like the sun. "I felt like we should throw in some bonus lessons, if we're doing sex ed," Declan said easily. "Kissing is just good clean fun."

Ronan doubted very much that what they had just done was any of those three things. It was dangerous and sinful and terrifying, for his money. But it didn't have to be safe. He was finally _getting Declan_ , and it'd take more than a bad feeling to make Ronan let go of that. He tried to smile along. "Cut to the good part, man. We don't have all day."

Declan nodded agreeably and stood back up, actually brushing his cock against his brother's face on his way up. The broad, velvety head against Ronan's cheek felt like a punch to the gut, and he made a low, indescribable noise.

"Sorry, buddy," Declan said, wincing. "Gotta look where I'm going with this thing, I could run into trouble that way." He sat down next to Ronan and wrapped his fingers around the base of his length. "Now, I'm gonna need you to watch carefully. You need to commit this to memory, okay?"

There was absolutely no danger on that front. Ronan stared intently at his brother's groin, not even gracing the question with a nod.

Declan got to work. His motions were long and fluid, turning his hand gently as it went up and down. His foreskin bunched and smoothed, and on the longer strokes he would stretch it down until the glaring, purplish head was completely uncovered and hold it that way for a second or so, shaking it back and forth like a dog wagging its tail.

Declan glanced at Ronan's hungry face through clear and thoughtful eyes. "You can touch it if you want," he pointed out. "This is your show."

Ronan's hand darted forward instantly. When it stopped against Declan's shaft, he slowly wrapped his fingers around it, shivering at the smoothness of the skin. He felt as if he were desecrating a holy place as he moved his hand. As he tightened his grip, Declan grunted quietly, and Ronan leapt back as if he were burned.

Declan reached over and ruffled his brother's hair. "No, come on. That was a good noise. You're doing great, buddy."

Hesitantly, Ronan returned. He took the beast in one hand and cupped Declan's egg-sized balls in the other, rolling them wonderingly. Declan hummed in appreciation and kept his hand in Ronan's hair, scratching at his scalp with the precision of someone who has covered the same ground a thousand times. Ronan tingled with nostalgia and bubbling excitement.

"You don't have to leave it at that, either," Declan said conspiratorially. "My body is at your disposal, however you want it. Whatever you wanna do to me, you can. This is the _fun_ kind of sex ed."

Ronan shivered with disbelief. "And you won't..." He trailed off. _Judge? Get cold feet? Hate me forever if I get it all wrong?_

Declan listened to each word as it wasn't said. "No. Never."

Shaking, Ronan leaned forward. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he brought his hand to his brother's naked chest and touched the wiry hair. He held eye contact, seeking constant approval.

Declan took the hand and settled it on his pebbled nipple. "I feel like this might be more what you're looking for, here."

Ronan let out a shaky laugh despite himself. "Dick."

"Dillweed," Declan countered. "Come on, be adventurous. I'm a buffet and you're stuck on the rolls."

Ronan leaned in and kissed his brother. It was different than the last time, without Declan pushing desperately forward; this time, he stayed in place, leaned his head back, breathed gently into him. Ronan broke off self-consciously. "That was just to get you to shut up."

Declan grinned and zipped his lips theatrically. Ronan glared through an irrepressible smile.

Newly emboldened, Ronan brought his mouth lower. He sucked experimentally at the region between neck and collarbone, eliciting a shockingly red mark and a low groan. He traced tongue and teeth over one dark nipple, which hardened precipitously, then slid to the other to check for differences. (The pattern of bumps was different; the right had one more straggling hair; the left didn't harden as quickly, already expecting the shock.) With an anxious glance at Declan's face to make sure this was still okay, he lifted Declan's arm and buried his face in the damp underarm hair, breathing the sour-sweet smell of sweat under a patch of deodorant near the end of its lifespan. Declan looked down upon this indulgently.

Ronan surfaced, face wet and mouth slightly open.

"You're kind of a perv," Declan noted.

Ronan looked very betrayed. "You said you wouldn't judge me!"

Declan shrugged. "I'm not _judging_ , I'm _teasing_. I'm a perv too, in case you hadn't noticed."

Ronan stuck his tongue out. Declan darted down to poke it with his own, then smugly returned to his relaxed pose. Ronan shook his head. "You're gross."

"You might have to speak up, I think you have some armpit in your mouth."

Ronan glared. "You sucked on my toe, you don't get to judge me."

Declan inclined his head. "Speaking of which..." Laying back, he raised one black silk sock to eye level and wiggled his toes. "I seem to have those too. You want in on that?"

This was a risky proposition, and Ronan weighed the options in his mind. On the one hand, he could evade further teasing. On the other hand: his brother did, indeed, have toes, and this was entirely too fascinating.

The options didn't need that much weighing. Ronan pressed his brother's foot to his face, feeling the cushioned firmness of the sole against his cheek and smelling the musty air of trapped sweat. Ronan's left hand unconsciously reached down to squeeze his burgeoning erection.

Declan's other foot prodded Ronan in the chest with its big toe. "Hey, don't start that yet! I need to watch you, and it's kind of hard to do that when I'm ass-up with my foot in your mouth."

Ronan blushed and let go of himself immediately. "I didn't realize I was doin' it," he muttered into Declan's heel.

The other foot, surprisingly prehensile, patted him on the head. He giggled despite himself. Hooking his fingers under the elastic band of the sock, he peeled it off to bare his brother's strangely elegant, hair-dusted foot. He licked a toe inquisitively; it tasted unexpectedly neutral. He swiped his tongue across the slightly rough whorls of the sole, eliciting a violent twitch.

"Tickles, huh," he said innocently.

"Don't start fights you're going to lose," advised Declan from his supine position. "I'm a veteran of naked tickle war, and it's not pretty."

Ronan nodded. "Rain check."

"Rain check," Declan agreed.

His exploration of the feet concluded (for now), Ronan leaned forward to examine his brother's crotch. Declan's legs spread invitingly, and Ronan found his head framed between two muscled thighs as he stared reverently at the monument jutting proudly from the swirls of coal-black hair barely an inch before him. Droplets of moisture lay diamond-like in the bush, gleaming seductively.

He inhaled deeply, musk filling his world and clouding his vision. Slowly, shaking, he moved up to lick at the head of his brother's indescribable, world-consuming, impossibly _real_ cock.

Declan's legs tightened on his neck. "Manners," Declan said softly. "What do we say?"

Ronan's head whirled with desire. "P-please." He swallowed frantically. "Please let me suck your cock. I want it."

After a moment, Declan loosened his grip. Ronan took the shaft in his hand and slid his tongue under the loose hood at its tip, tasting the smoothness of its skin. He probed at the slit, swirled around the crown, sucked gently at the strip of skin just under the head. He luxuriated in the reality of it.

This was what he had dreamed of. This was his personal Heaven. He'd had dreams of Matty, submitting or taking charge as his subconscious dictated; he'd had dreams of his father, always rough and fast and brutal, fucking him until he screamed. But he'd dreamed of Declan almost every night. Declan giving, Declan taking, Declan hard or soft or cold or warm, or just _Declan._ Just his indescribable, indecipherable, impossible brother.

He hadn't yet managed to wrap his lips around even the head when Declan grunted urgently. " _Fuck_ , Ro- I'm-" He pushed Ronan off him, bouncing his brother's head off the mattress like a tennis ball, and kneeled over his face. " _Follow along,_ " he growled as he gripped his pulsing erection.

Ronan followed. He grabbed himself, encircled the base with three fingers and a thumb. Declan could barely fit his whole hand around his, but there was no time to compare. With rapid, stuttering strokes, the brothers simultaneously flung themselves over the point of no return. Ronan spattered what drops he had left across Declan's lower back, while Declan, with a guttural roar, fired half a dozen ropes of thick, pearly spunk across his little brother's face, masking his features under layers of cum.

There was a moment of stillness, heavy breathing, the crash of the ocean in Ronan's ears. Then, slowly, Declan collapsed himself onto his prone form. Ronan didn't have the words to say he was being crushed. He wasn't sure he minded. He wasn't sure of much, right now. Only one thing.

"I love you," he mumbled as his eyes slipped shut.

Of that, at least, he could be sure.

O~O~O

Declan smiled, satisfied. _Mission accomplished_.

It got a little creepy, sure. He hadn't wanted most of those contingency plans to come into play, and he hadn’t planned on dissociating and making out with his little brother. Or at least, he hadn't before. But the core plan had worked. Undermine Ronan's capacity for logical argument by getting him to cry early on, immediately secure his forgiveness, undermine faith as necessary, and jump-start a conscious sexual awakening. He'd fixed the dreams, and he'd gotten off while doing it – which wasn't supposed to be a desideratum, but fuck it, he'd count it anyway. He got to cum while it was happening; he'd expected to have to wait until that night.

He wasn't attracted to his brother, not really. That wasn't it. It was the fact that he'd been able to do something, something _good_ , even, by twisting someone's thoughts to follow his. The fact that he'd strengthened the bond between himself and his little brother, lashing them together against the explosion inevitable in any system containing both Niall and Declan Lynch. And he wasn't afraid to admit that it was partly because Ronan was so very much like his father. What boy didn't look for Daddy in every man? What boy didn't think, on some level, that someday Dad would recognize he'd been wrong – that his son deserved the same affection he would give to any other – that perhaps, in the absence of a real filial relationship, they could forge something else, something dark and fearful and perverse and _real?_

Smiling through the tears in his eyes, his brother's skin satin-smooth against his own, Declan Lynch slept and did not dream.


End file.
